A PLACE WHERE FORESTS ARE BORN

A Visit to the Forest Service Nursery — A Place Where Forests Are Born

By Bill Keitel

I was raised in a landscape where diversity was an unfamiliar concept — where the wind swept unimpeded through endless rows of corn and soybeans, and that was, for the most part, the entirety of my world. My playgrounds were green and gold, and the horizon was something measured not in miles, but in acres.

So you can imagine my surprise when I discovered that the U.S. Agricultural Service had interests extending beyond my familiar fields of corn and soybeans.

Dear reader, today I have had the good fortune of imposing upon family. My nephew, Nathan Zambino, is what one might call an essential worker — not in the sense of stocking grocery shelves or driving freight, but in a quieter, more fundamental way. He works with seeds, genetics, and the careful breeding of trees for the U.S. Forest Service.

Through Nathan and his superiors, I was granted permission to visit the National Reforestation, Nurseries, and Genetic Resources Program (and yes, that is indeed a mouthful) in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho.

Most of us rarely stop to consider the ailments of our forests. We pay little attention to white pine blister rust, bark beetle infestations, or the slow suffocation of drought-stressed trees in an increasingly volatile climate. Yet these are the adversaries our forests face — and the scientists and technicians I met are engaged in the fight, one seed at a time.

The people who work here are quiet, unassuming individuals, but their mission feels almost sacred: ensuring that our forests — and, by extension, our homes — will endure. Because that is where it all begins, isn’t it?

It starts with a stand of trees — what we call a forest. When the loggers arrive, it becomes timber. Once harvested, it becomes logs, then lumber, and finally the beams and planks that shape our houses. And because it is wood — warm, natural, and inherently good — it becomes home.

That reverence for wood is what drew me here, after three days of travel, to this hundred-acre nursery of purpose and patience.

I have lived most of my life among corn and soybeans, believing that was the whole story. But here I discovered another chapter — quieter, nobler — where men and women almost dressed in lab coats but certainly field gear work together to secure the future of America’s forests.

It turns out the roof over your head, the frame of your barn, the dining room table at which you sit — all begin in places like this, nurtured by the dedication of Forest Service professionals.

Many tree species today stand under siege: from disease, from heat, from the slow encroachments of a changing climate. Fortunately, people like Nathan and his father, Dr. Paul Zambino — a plant pathologist and fungal geneticist — are working to ensure that our forests remain healthy, resilient, and productive.

Back in the Midwest, no one loses sleep over white pine blister rust, yet everyone expects strong, straight lumber in abundance. It is reassuring to know that somewhere, someone is minding the store.

During my tour, I watched as seeds were extracted from pine cones by the millions. Each year, roughly five million of them are cultivated into seedlings, twelve to fourteen inches tall, their roots trimmed to precise specifications, ready to be planted by hand in the forest soil.

The remaining seeds are preserved — stored in vast ware houses in chilled barrels, carefully catalogued, waiting to bring life back to burned or barren hillsides, including those on Native American lands. The total number of seeds is almost beyond reckoning.

Truckloads of cones arrive from the mountains, collected by experts who know which trees are extraordinary — those that resist disease, endure drought, and thrive where others fail. 

Each cone is sorted, shaken, and winnowed, yielding a perfect seed. Every step of the process is deliberate and scientific — pollination trials, moisture assessments, genetic documentation. These seeds did not end up here by accident; they are the result of long thought and purposeful design.

As I walked through that hundred-acre nursery, I realized that the people here are, quite literally, constructing the future — millions of young trees destined for distant ridges, where someday our grandchildren might walk beneath their shade.

And I thought of home — of the barns that would not stand, the porches that would not creak just right, without these forests and the people who sustain them.

There is comfort in knowing that while we go about our daily routines, dedicated individuals out west are tending to the next generation of trees — so that when we need them, they will be there.

Their mission is disease resistance and resilience — but their work, I think, borders on the sacred. 

After seeing their efforts firsthand, I would say they are indeed doing sacred work.